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Max must’ve watched that happen behind his eyes, must’ve seen the acceptance kick in, the knowledge that he was the prey and he had been caught, no escape. Because then suddenly Max was flipping them, crashing back into the wall himself, Charles melting back into the kiss, entire body trying to physically form with Max's as he pressed in. The kiss stayed hot, heavy, needy, desperate and raw, and this time Charles's hands were tugging open Max's race suit, unzipping it down to his hips, hands hungry and commanding.
Until there was pressure on his shoulders, Max's hands pushing, sinking Charles down to his knees in front of him.
The demand was more than obvious.
And there, on his knees in front of Max, Charles realised that in all the years they'd been doing this, all of the lazy mornings in sun-soaked hotel sheets, slow love-making on sunloungers rocked by the flow of the sea, and of course numerous quick fucks in hot, sticky drivers rooms, they'd never done this still in their race suits before.
Max has a bad race result. He seeks out something he can control - Charles.
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